


To the Sound of Horses' Hooves and Gunshots

by A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin



Series: Will We Be Stuck Like This Forever? [3]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Highwaymen, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Execution, M/M, Mild Violence/Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin/pseuds/A_God_A_Vampire_And_Two_Heirs_Of_Durin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s dangerous to travel on country roads at night, especially when there’s the threat of highwaymen at every turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Sound of Horses' Hooves and Gunshots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OctobersLily510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctobersLily510/gifts).



> OctobersLily510 prompted: "Highwayman/Robbery 'Victim' - nothing more dashing than a masked highwayman, you must admit!"
> 
> I hope the fill for this prompt is okay because I'm not sure that this is quite what was wanted but please enjoy anyway - I'm working on more prompts currently as well.
> 
> And if anyone has seen the photos from Aidan filming Poldark, just picture Mitchell wearing those sorts of clothes in this :)

He pulled his hat down low over his eyes, tied the scrap of cloth he called a handkerchief around the lower half of his face and buttoned up his coat. He tucked his pistols securely into his belt, having already made sure that they were fully loaded, ready to be pulled out at any moment should the need arise. He hoped that tonight they would be merely for show, a tool to intimidate whoever should come his way. But sometimes people got too bold, thinking that they could act like heroes and challenge him.

He wasn’t keen on bloodshed. He chose victims who would be more likely just to do what he asked and run away for that reason. Sometimes he chose wrong, or sometimes the people surprised him, but more often than not he got away with what he wanted.

He wasn’t really in it for the money anyway, that was just a means of earning something in order to let him eat and find lodgings. It was the thrill that made him do it, the boredom of an ordinary life driving him to commit crimes just to feel some sort of exhilaration.

He wasn’t anyone special. He didn’t hold a position of responsibility, and he supposed that it would be harder to hide if he did. Instead he was a face that disappeared into a crowd; he was tall and of an average build with dark hair and dark eyes but no particularly distinguishing features, no visible scar or the suchlike. He kept himself to himself mostly and he doubted that many of the people he actually lived near even knew his name.

He planned to keep it that way. There was only one person that he would ever want to know him properly, and that person had yet to show themselves. So until that happened, he was content to continue his life without rules and to live as he pleased.

* * *

That night he found himself in near enough the same spot as always, well-concealed in the thicket of trees which lined the roadside. He’d used the place a number of times, yet still fools came that way by carriage, practically making themselves targets. Still, who was he to complain about something like that? He just hoped that there would be the sound of rolling carriage wheels soon.

The moon was high and almost full, the shadows it cast shrouding his portion of the road and illuminating the rest; near perfect conditions.

He’d been there nearly an hour when the first tell-tale, regular-sounding thuds of the wheels jolting over the loose stones reached his ears. He clasped the reins of his horse and waited patiently for the carriage to arrive at the crest of the hill, then it would be his moment to strike.

Finally, from his hiding place, he saw the horses come into view and the carriage itself behind. It was time. He pulled one pistol from his belt and spurred his horse forward, startling to carriage to a halt as he pointed the barrel of the gun directly at the coachman.

The man in the green livery turned towards him, his bright blue eyes widened in shock as he caught sight of the gun so close to his head.

“Stand down, my man,” the highwayman spoke, fighting to keep his voice steady, even when his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest.

The coachman in front of him just stared in disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite place why he was familiar.

“Stand down,” the highwayman repeated, motioning for the other man to get down from the carriage. “Wait by the horses and don’t try to move or do anything.” It was an empty threat, he would be more hurt than angry if the man ran away.

Slowly, the coachman’s expression schooled itself into a more determined look and he suddenly leapt from his seat, brandishing a knife fiercely as the highwayman took a startled step backwards. Clearly the recognition that he had thought he’d seen in the man’s eyes had merely been a trick of the light.

“I will not stand down,” the man said, “I will not let you rob my master or myself.”

The highwayman resisted the urge to roll his eyes; why was he always so impulsive and headstrong?

“Sir,” he kept his voice even, “You have but a knife, while I have two fully loaded pistols.”

“Yet you have not cocked either of them,” the coachman retorted, “What sort of self respecting criminal forgets to do that? No, you did not wish to shoot me, for if you did I would be bleeding on the dirt with at a least a wound which would cripple me and stop me fighting. Curious that that is not the case, would you not say?”

“Such a way with words,” the highwayman said, “I was not aware that you could win this fight simply with your little speech.”

“Words are sometimes a better weapon than a sword, my good man, surely even a common criminal would know that?”

“I could shoot you where you stand before you have the chance to open your mouth again. What good are words to a dead man?”

“They say that sometimes the dead speak the loudest; how about that, sir?”

At that moment, the occupant of the carriage decided to stick his head out of the window and see what exactly was going on.

“Johnson!” he cried, “Johnson, what is going on here? Who is this man and what does he want?”

The highwayman reached for his other pistol and levelled with the other man’s face.

“Stand and deliver, sir,” he said firmly, “Hand over your money and no harm will come to you or your man.”

“What is the meaning of this audacity?” the man practically spluttered, “I will not be handing my money over to a vagabond. Johnson, deal with him.”

“Certainly, my lord,” Johnson nodded, turning his gaze back to the highwayman and giving him such an intense stare that it was as though he was trying to impart some sort of message.

The resulting fight was half-hearted at best, a knife and a pistol were hardly well-matched weapons but they made a decent enough show of trying. Finally, Johnson came close enough to whisper in the other man’s ear.

“Pretend to overpower me,” he hissed quickly, “Press the knife to my throat or the gun to my head however you like, but make it look real.”

He spun around a few times, twirling the knife but eventually making sure to miss a step so that the highwayman could grab his arm and twist him so that he was pressed flat against his chest, one hand keeping him secure and the other pressing the knife to his throat.

“Your money, sir,” he turned back to the man in the carriage, “Or I leave your servant to die by the roadside and take you next.”

“You always were useless in a fight, Johnson,” the man spat sharply, “I should have known better than to bring just you for protection along this road.”

The highwayman lifted his hand from the coachman’s chest and raised his pistol instead.

“Just throw the purse over here, sir,” he said, “Quickly.”

The man’s face became a violent shade of red before he removed the purse from his belt and threw it as close to the other two men as he could.

“There,” he said, “A few shillings at best. Is that enough for the return of my coachman?”

There was most definitely more than a few shillings in the purse, but no amount of money in the world would make him give up Johnson.

“The money will do fine,” he said, “But I’m afraid that your coachman stays with me.”

“What?” But the man had no time to say anything else for the highwayman raised his pistol into the air and fired one shot, the crack of the gunpowder startling the horses attached to the carriage and sending them flying off down the other side of the hill. The highwayman’s own horse barely even flinched.

As soon as the carriage was out of sight, the highwayman loosened his grip on the coachman and tucked the knife, pistols and purse away into his belt. He tugged the cloth away from his face and turned to the other man, who was carefully rubbing his right arm which had been twisted behind his back.

“You knew it was me all along,” the highwayman spoke first, “And to think that I thought you had no idea.”

“I’d know your voice anywhere, John Mitchell,” the blond coachman grinned, “Is it just John this time?”

Mitchell shrugged.

“Whatever you care to call me,” he said, “No one’s actually spoken my name in nearly ten years.”

“Ten years?” the blond whistled in disbelief, “That’s a long time to have no one to speak to, I guess that I’ll have to right that wrong immediately. It’s Anders, by the way.”

Mitchell smiled.

“I didn’t think it would anything else,” he said, “Now, let’s get going before that man gains control of the carriage or sends someone after us.”

He swung himself up into the saddle of his horse and held out a hand to Anders.

“What would you prefer?” he asked, “To ride behind or in front of me?”

“I’m perfectly happy behind,” the blond replied, climbing up as he spoke. “I can hold on myself, I don’t need you to hold me.”

“Maybe I like holding you.”

“Shut up, John, and just ride.”

* * *

They found themselves an inn on the edge of the next town over, one which Mitchell knew would give them a room over the stable if they asked specifically to stay with their horses.

“No one’ll disturb us out here,” he said, once they’d spoken to the landlord, who seemed half-asleep and probably would not have noticed if they’d strolled right in regardless. “And there’s only one room so we won’t have anyone to overhear us.”

“Will we be doing something that might carry the risk of being overheard?” Anders smirked, knowing full well what the answer to his question was.

“I suppose that you’ll have to wait and see,” Mitchell answered with a wink. He checked his horse over once more. “We’ll buy you a horse tomorrow in the market.”

He motioned for Anders to follow him up the rickety wooden ladder to the stable room, the two of them taking in their lodgings in one quick glance. The setting didn’t matter to them, as long as they had each other and time to themselves, which fortunately had been afforded to them at that moment.

But for how long? Mitchell could not stop that small concern in the back of his mind, but he concentrated on the present. He had to, for the sake of the two of them, he had to focus on spending every single second he could with Anders, for once time ran out for one of them, it would run out for the other pretty soon afterwards.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Anders spoke up, stretched out lazily on one of the wide pallet mattresses on the floor of the room; there was another laid out in the opposite corner but it was unlikely that that one would be used. “Come on, relax, John.”

Mitchell shoved off his boots, grimacing at the mud covering them, and hung his coat and hat on a nail by the door. Anders had also discarded his jacket, albeit rather haphazardly across the old chair by the wall, and the highwayman couldn’t help but wonder whether he had always treated what clearly looked like an expensive uniform in that way.

“Well, today was fun,” the blond continued, “I especially enjoyed his face when you made him throw the money to you. I think I’ve been waiting for the moment to deceive him for a very long time.” He paused. “Oh, and don’t take what he said as the truth, I’m not that bad in a fight.”

Mitchell smiled softly as he sat down beside the other man on the pallet.

“I’m sure you’re not,” he said, “As long as the opponent is as vertically challenged as you are.”

Anders punched his arm in annoyance at the jest, but still grabbed his wrist in the same motion and dragged the other man down to lie beside him.

“How about you stop teasing me?” he asked softly, “And we get to know each other again?”

* * *

They were extraordinarily lucky for a long time, nearly a year in fact. They changed cities and hunting spots regularly, preying on carriages which would yield decent amounts of money and getting away with it. They worked as a team. Mitchell had been good on his own, but together they were brilliant. Anders was better with words, while Mitchell preferred actions.

By the time that their first year together was beginning to draw to a close, they’d managed to acquire such a substantial amount of money that Anders had started talking about buying a farm together.

“A farm?” Mitchell asked, “Why a farm?”

Anders shrugged.

“I like animals,” he said, “Why? Do you not want a farm?”

“Neither of us are farmers, Anders,” Mitchell pointed out, “We don’t know how to run a farm.”

“I’m sure we could figure it out, John, so many people do it. It can’t be that hard. Anyway, we could have our own little place, just the two of us, and it would be all ours, wouldn’t you like that? You loved the house I built us last time.”

Mitchell regarded him tiredly.

“We died in that house,” he said, “Well, at least I did, I don’t know about you.”

“But it was still ours,” Anders protested, “Come on, John, think about it.”

* * *

But then their luck, as all luck is prone to do, suddenly ran out, and thinking about their farm together was the last thing that Mitchell wanted to do.

They targeted the wrong carriage in the end.

How were they to know that instead of rich, foolish nobles, there were a number of the king’s soldiers hidden behind the embroidered curtains?

All they knew was that one moment Anders had his pistol pointed at the window and was asking the occupants for their money, and then the next he had fallen from his horse and was clutching his chest desperately.

How were they to know that these soldiers were carrying loaded rifles?

Mitchell’s own safety was the last of his worries as he threw himself from his horse onto the ground next to the blond, the last hopeful part of his mind wishing that maybe Anders was merely winded by the fall. He was not so lucky, if the dark stain across the other man’s jacket was anything to go by.

“Anders,” he whispered hoarsely, “Anders, speak to me. Come on, please.”

He wrapped his arms around the blond and hauled him half into his lap, cradling one side of his face gently with his left hand, while his right sought out Anders’ own fingers and tangled desperately with them. He did not care whether the soldiers saw or heard him; it was over now, what was the point of hiding?

Slowly, Anders’ eyelids fluttered weakly and he opened his eyes a little, the bright blue dulled nearly to grey.

“I’m sorry, John,” he managed to choke out, “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Mitchell told him, “It’s not your fault. We always knew that something would separate us in the end, it always does. I just wish that Fate would give us just a little more time together.” He lifted one of Anders’ hands up to his lips and kissed his knuckles softly.

“Until next time, John,” the blond said, “Until next time.”

And with that he gave Mitchell’s hand one last weak squeeze, before his eyes closed for the last time and it was all over.

* * *

Mitchell didn’t really remember what happened next. He knew that the soldiers had dragged him away from Anders’ body at some point, no matter how much he tried to resist them, and that he must have been thrown into the carriage afterwards. He knew that somewhere within the blur that his memories had become they’d arrested him and sentenced him to be hanged for his crimes, but none of that really mattered anymore.

He went to the gallows silently, the crowd at Tyburn Tree watching in unconcealed disappointment that he went neither with great courage nor with great resistance. He declined the offer to make one last speech, wanting to just get the business over with and be done with this life.

The hangman looped the noose around his neck, forgoing the usual sack they placed over prisoners’ heads; clearly someone had decided that an example needed to be made. Mitchell didn’t care what they thought of him, he wasn’t the only criminal in the world; there were probably a good few of them in the jeering crowd several feet away. Anyway, he only cared what one person thought, the only person who really mattered in his world.

Finally, the hangman had finished his preparations and Mitchell could feel him getting ready to kick the support out from beneath his feet. It was almost over.

He smiled for the last time and looked up into the sky, whispering softly to himself:

“Not long now, Anders, I’m on my way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tyburn Tree is a real place were they used to hang criminals from either London or Middlesex. There are still markers showing where the gallows used to stand near Marble Arch in London.
> 
> Also, if anyone has any prompts for this reincarnation verse, please leave them in the comments because I'm trying to do as many as I can :)


End file.
